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Dean oh god come home I'm sorry I couldn't save you I'm sorry
Sam's mouth moved with silent prayers, spilling alongside the tears (no screaming, yet, thank god. He didn't know if he could handle anymore screaming), getting lost in the worn cotton of one of Dean's old t-shirts. Sam'd told Bobby once, between the rambling and sobbing, that it still smelled like him -- black coffee, motor oil and bittersweet midwest wind. Dean loved the midwest. Open roads and high speeds. Homemade pie and sweet corn, the only vegetable worth a fuck, thank you very much.
He watched large shoulders shudder and shake, uncontrolled and pained, between nearly incoherent Deans and pleasepleasepleases that rocked him to the core. The constant ache roared in his head and chest and everywhere, never easing, never leaving; always growing each minute he sat and stared and wished for Sam to snap out of it. To open his eyes and see him. To reach out and feel him there.
It'd been a month. A whole month out of the pit and the nightmares weren't just in his dreams. Not only chains, hooks, fire and pain. SamSamsaveme! Coming home hadn't felt like home, not finding his brother --family-- huddled in a too small bed (This room's for you, boys. Uncle Bobby's gonna keep you safe while I'm gone), clutching the closest thing to Dean he could find amongst the rubble of a life he never wanted, whimpering and shaking and praying.
"Shh, Sammy. It's okay. I'm home," he whispered. "You gotta wake up. Need cut that hair. Startin' to look like a girl, not that you didn't before."
Dean crawled up slowly behind Sam, pressing them chest to back, wrapping an arm tight around his waist and carding the other through knotted hair. Sam only shivered harder, burrowing closer to the smell of Dean etched into the shirt, I'msorry. "S'ok, Sammy. It's okay. Hey, remember the time Dad took us to our first baseball game? You were eight and he won tickets in a poker game. He hated it, but you-- well, you hated it, too, but you… god, Sammy, you loved those damned red, strawberry flavored slushies. Never could find 'em that good anywhere else. I think they started with a 'Z'. Zul's? You remember, Sammy?"
A deep breath and a tighter hold, Sam's shaking flowed through his arms, only a whisper compared the earthquake. The whimpers had calmed, the tears easing and his body losing tension, but the prayers never stopped. Deanohgod
"West Virginia. Yeah, that's where we were. Some tiny town with, I swear, three whole streets in the place, but you loved it because of those damned slushies, Sammy. I promise, when you're better, we'll go back. We'll get as many as you want, go to a game or… God, Sammy, anything, just--"
I'm sorry.
"Me, too, Sammy."